


Making Peace

by springsdandelion (writergirlie)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirlie/pseuds/springsdandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the Capitol fell, Katniss and Peeta are still struggling to make sense of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Peace

 

_Broken children are we_

_Trying to find our footing_

_On unsteady ground_

_Trying to mend our broken hearts_

_With no thread to sew_

_Trying to make peace_

_Where there is only war_

_And looking for a reason to believe again_

 

 

He’s kept his distance from me ever since we arrived. I understand why, of course—maybe better than anyone, including Haymitch and Dr. Aurelius.

 

But I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.

 

It’s been a year since the Capitol fell. It snuck up on both of us, Peeta and me. Sometimes it still feels like yesterday. All the time, really. Every morning, I still listen for Prim’s soft breathing nearby, still look for the tail of blond hair that was always pulled into a neat braid, bright and striking against the drab gray of her medic’s uniform. Still ache for the warmth of her hand on my arm, the cornflower blue of her eyes that I can’t help but be reminded of when I’m looking into Peeta’s.

 

Every morning, it’s the same, though. I wake up to emptiness. Stillness. And I die all over again when the realization hits me. She dies all over again. Only when I turn over to face Peeta, to nestle my body into his and lay my cheek on his breastbone, where I can feel the steady drumbeat of his heart, do I remember she would want me to keep living.

 

And we’ve done just that. For the last three hundred and sixty five days, we’ve done it, though some days are easier than others. So when the gilded invitations come in the mail and I’m forced to acknowledge that time really has pulled away from that fateful day, like a train that’s long since left its station behind, my first inclination is to throw them out. Peeta manages to rescue them before I have a chance to do so, though, after spotting Haymitch’s when he brings him over a fresh loaf of bread.

 

“They want us to come for a special ceremony,” he says. I figured as much, though I didn’t even bother to open the envelope. I didn’t need to. They’re nothing if not predictable, the Capitol. “They’ve invited all of the remaining Victors.”

 

Apparently, this new government is no less ostentatious than the last, and in typical fashion, it’s decided to commemorate the occasion by erecting a memorial dedicated to those lost in the final battle—building it on the very site where all the parachutes had descended and erupted into a swirl of flame and ash. My nose remembers the scent of it well. My skin remembers the agony of burning. Wilting.

 

And of course, those in charge would like for all of us to be in attendance. A grand show of unity and support to demonstrate to the rest of the country how they’re supposed to feel about this most somber of anniversaries.

 

Peeta doesn’t ask me straight out how I feel about going. To be honest, I’m surprised they’ve even asked me at all, considering the last time I was in the Capitol, I was on trial for assassinating the new president, just days into her term. But time heals all wounds, it seems—or Plutarch Heavensbee does. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s played a key role in smoothing over any lingering concerns about me, and he all but confirms it when he calls us a few days later, after we’ve sent in our RSVPs declining the invitation.

 

I overhear Peeta in the study, telling him that we’re honored they want us there, but we won’t be able to attend. There’s a long silence before Peeta speaks again; Plutarch isn’t the type to take no for an answer, and is no doubt pulling out all the stops to persuade Peeta.

 

“We owe it to the fallen,” Plutarch will say. “The country needs reconciliation. Without the Mockingjay and her star-crossed lover, how can we show everyone that we really are on our way to healing?”

 

Whatever he’s saying, I know he’ll get to Peeta. Because deep down, we both know that going is the right thing to do, and Peeta will always want to do the right thing. It’s what I love about him. When he hangs up the phone, he lets out a heavy exhale, pretending its relief he’s released, instead of regret. But I know him too well.

 

“If we pack now, we can catch the morning train,” I say. “We could be there in time for the dedication.”

 

He looks at me for a long time, his face a jumble of emotions, then he says, “Are you sure?”

 

“If you’re sure.”

 

We say nothing more about it until we step off the train a day and a half later and take in the gleaming bustle of the city. Its recovery is complete and nothing short of impressive; one would hardly ever guess that just a year ago, it was in utter disarray. Effie meets us at the station, giving us both a hearty embrace and offering profuse apologies when she tells us that someone had the bright idea to put us up in the very penthouse suite where we had been made to stay when we trained for our Games.

 

“They must have thought you’d appreciate the nostalgia of it,” she says, trying to find some logical explanation for the otherwise twisted sense of appropriateness.

 

I find Peeta on the rooftop just before we’re supposed to join the rest of the delegation for the banquet dinner, leaning over the railing and looking out into the distant horizon as the sun slowly sinks out of sight. There’s no more force field, of course, so he’s able to stand right up against the edge of the roof, and I can’t help but notice that his fingers are clutching the railing, knuckles white from the force of his grip, as he keeps his gaze fixed firmly ahead on the orange blaze of sky and away from everything else.

 

All around us are virtual landmines of memories for him. Every corner, every square inch of space holds some sort of association with it, some significance that’s etched deeply enough into his brain that it could very easily trigger a reaction in less than a fraction of a second—throwing the cage open to unleash the monster he’s managed to keep well-imprisoned all these many months.

 

No wonder he can’t bring himself to look me in the eye.

 

He senses my presence even though I’ve hardly made a sound. He turns his head just so and relaxes his grip on the railing, though the tension hasn’t left his shoulders. I wonder what he’s thinking. Feeling. I wonder if he’ll reject my touch if I circle my arms around his waist, resist me if I place a kiss just between his shoulder blades, where I’m always able to draw a shudder from him.

 

I watch him carefully as I approach, debating whether or not to bring a hand up to his arm, but losing my nerve at the last second. Instead, I come up beside him to lean against the railing, letting my hand rest next to his so our pinkies are almost touching. We stand side by side in silence for a long time, before he finally moves his hand to thread his fingers through mine.

 

“It looks exactly the same, doesn’t it?” he says softly. “The same as before, I mean. Before the war.” He shakes his head, as though trying to expel a thought. A memory. His fingers tighten over mine, then loosen and wrap around them again, thumb gently sweeping across the arch of my hand. “I just figured… that it would have changed somehow. Does that make any sense?”

 

I’m struck at once by his words, the memory of him saying those very ones to me years ago, on this very roof. On the night before our first Games.

 

But of course, so many things have changed since then. We’ve changed. And I don’t know how to even begin to answer his question.

 

“Do you think they would ever bring them back again?” he says. “The Games?”

 

A chill rakes up my spine, making me shiver involuntarily.

 

“They tried to do it before.”

 

From the corner of my eye, I see him swallow hard, then feel his hand slip out of mine. I turn my head to look up at him before he even says anything.

 

“Katniss… I need to ask you something.”

 

I can’t explain the vague sense of panic I feel. I think somewhere inside of me, I’ve always known he would ask this question. That it would always be between us, always in our way, regardless of how close we get. That there would always be a seed of doubt in his mind—about me, about us—unless we brought this out in the open.

 

“What is it?”

 

“When Coin asked us to vote on another Hunger Games, you said yes.” He looks at me, the pain in his eyes like a dull knife to my heart. “Why?”

 

I’m quiet for a long time. I could lie and tell him it was all a grand scheme to throw Coin off the scent, to make her believe I was loyal to her and win her trust so I could have her at her most vulnerable. I think I’ve even convinced myself of this. Convinced Haymitch of it.

 

But the truth is, I was just a girl drowning in my anguish. A girl who didn’t know how to begin to make sense of her mind-numbing loss, who forgot for one weak moment that the last thing her sister would have wanted was to have her death avenged in such a brutal manner.

 

I wish I could deny all of this. But I know I can’t.

 

“You know why, Peeta.”

 

I look up and see tears collect in his eyes.

 

“Would you vote the same way now?”

 

“No.”

 

I hope he knows I’m telling him the truth, not just what he wants to hear. It takes him a long time before he turns to me, but when he does, he takes my hand in his once more. His grip is firm and gentle all at once, reassuring me without words that he’s not planning on letting go this time. That he understands.

 

I empty my lungs of air, setting it free, just as I set free the weight that’s held me down all this time. I let it go for Prim, because it’s what she would have wanted me to do. However excruciating the loss of her is—and will always be—I know the only way I can make enough room for her in my heart is to empty it of the rage that still occupies it.

 

Peeta came to know this long ago. And he knew to wait until I came to this conclusion on my own.

 

I love him all the more for it.

 

The sun has vanished completely now, leaving only a trail of fire in its wake as the moon begins to rise and take its place. Peeta grasps my hand and smiles, and starts to lead us back into the penthouse.

 

“We should get going,” he says. “They’re probably waiting for us.”

 

“Effie’s probably having a minor coronary by now.”

 

He laughs softly. “Probably.”

 

“Peeta?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“We won’t let them. Bring the Games back.” I rise up on my toes to kiss him, pressing my forehead to his before I look up at him once more. “I promise.”


End file.
